Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Since I thoroughly enjoyed writing about the awesomeness that is The Karate Kid last week, I've decided to make it a semi-regular thing (whenever the hell I feel like it) to write about the 80s movies that molded me into the (awful, uncaring, borderline-sociopathic, perverted, necrophilia-obsessed, and, above all, classy!)man I am.

If you can't guess what film I'm talking about based on the title of this post or the picture, then you should probably just stop reading right now. The nerd boner I get over this movie is so huge that it actually emits high-pitched noises that sound remarkably similar to whale calls. In fact, if I'm in the water at the beach (which would never happen anyway, but I'll get into that at a later time), and you start talking to me about The Goonies, at least one whale will beach itself before my geekrection can be quelled.

The reasons I enjoy The Goonies are numerous. Therefore, I will make a list of the elements which help to make it one of the perfect movies:

It's one of the few Corey Feldman movies that I can watch without wishing he took a coat hanger to the throat in his eighth month in the womb. Dream a Little Dream is the antithesis of The Goonies in this aspect.

More than one Cyndi Lauper song on the soundtrack.

A droopy-eyed monster (I feel I have to clarify this by saying that, no, Shannon Doherty is not in this movie. I'm talking about Sloth played by John Matuszak).

A fucking pirate waterslide. Name just one more goddamn movie that has a pirate waterslide. You can't. You know why? Because you've never seen the movies that happen in my dreams, therefore, you've only seen one fucking movie with a pirate waterslide and that, my friend, is The Goonies.

Did I mention a fat kid jiggles his belly? Well, I feel it bears repeating. And he spills a strawberry shake on a window, busts down a door, breaks a bunch of shit, and, the best part, adults threaten to puree his hand if he doesn't tell them where his friends are (hint: they went in the fireplace, but The Fratellis don't believe him until the bats come busting out from it!).

Headbands!

A young white boy and a young Asian boy merrily skipping arm-in-arm and, in no way*, do I consider it erotic.

Doubloons!

Mississippi Mud, Chocolate Eruption, Apple...

Samwise Gamgee in braces getting some mouth-loving from the girl who Lucas had a crush on.

Baby Ruth

A grown man getting hit in the face by a slice of pizza.

Booty traps. That's what I said, booby traps.

I'll just stop there, but in no way is this list comprehensive.

This movie is weird, though. If you didn't grow up watching this movie, chances are you probably hate it or at least don't "get it."** I've talked to people like this (who will, heretofore, be referred to as motherfucking Communists), and they just don't quite understand what the big deal is about this movie. The only way I can explain it is to say that, I know when I was a kid, the idea of finding pirate treasure probably crossed my mind at least once a day, if not more. This was a movie where kids were actually able to do that. If you were a very gay child like me, you probably identified with one of the Goonies--in my case, oddly enough, it was Data, the Asian boy (years after first viewing this film, I've found myself "identifying" with plenty of Asian boys since)--and, therefore, felt like it was a movie that was about you and your friends or, at least, something that could possibly happen.

That's all I have for this entry. It is, honestly, one of the movies (if not THE movie) that got me into film as a kid. I feel like I owed it to The Goonies, even goddamn Corey Feldman, to put this out there.

Now where am I going, you ask?Men's room, Mikey. Men's room.

*in every way**a spot in Heaven

Edit: Oh yeah. Any comments on the new colors? I don't mean that they (The National Association for the Advancement of Colors) invented new colors, I mean the new colors for the weblog. Or, should I just completely revamp it and have pictures of The Care Bears all over the site? Also, if you didn't notice, I got a new profile picture drawn and colored by my friend, Ryan. So tell me how awesome it is to have a hand-drawn picture of a retarded baby please.

Interesting thought of the day:I consider myself a "personal space rapist." I make it my calling in life to violate as many people's personal space (spaces?) as possible. An old lady need help with her groceries? Carry them, but do so by approaching her from behind and supporting her arms with your own. Waiter taking your order at a restaurant? Grab his arm holding the notepad and look him in the eyes, unblinking, as you relay your order.

Monday, July 25, 2005

I didn't want to bother concocting a title employing any pun involving one of his movies and me wanting him to get raped by a giant robot with a metal cock like the things sticking out of the hubcaps of the car of the bad guy with the awful complexion in Grease, so I thought I would cut to the chase.I was going to use a picture of Mel Gibson, because it would be appropriate, but looking at his "stupid fucking face" made me so mad, that I decided to put a picture of a guy dressed as a centaur instead.

As if The Passion of the Christ wasn't pretentious enough, Mel Gibson is ready to drop another giant celluloid turd on the film-viewing public with his new film called--and I promise you this isn't the name of a shitty band lineup your local Top 40 station put together to "Blow the hinges off of summer!"--Apocalypto.

Yep. Apocalypto. It could be the name that your local Dungeons & Dragons nerd gave to his level 18 dwarf warlock, but, no, it's the new Passion of the Christ.

Or is it the nickname of the Vodka and Roofies cocktail that some local frat guy uses to make sure his "cock gets some mouth-loving tonight"? "Don't worry, dude. It's a sure thing. She's drinking the ole Apocalypto." Then he high-fives whoever is near him because frat guys can't end a conversation without a high-five and an uncomfortably long homo-erotic stare. Well, maybe it could be that, but it's also going to be the new film brought to you by director of The Man Without a Face and star of Bird on a Wire.

And, to make it equally as awful and pretentious, he's going to make it in another foreign-ass language, like he did with The Passion and Aramaic. The dialogue will be in an "obscure Mayan dialect." Do you really need the word 'obscure' before 'Mayan dialect'? Are the legions of people who speak the non-obscure Mayan dialect that is sweeping the nation going to go to the film playing at their local fucking stone temple and storm out because they can't understand a word that's being said and, besides, it's baby-sacrificing time?

So, another 9-hour movie with subtitles. Awesome. If I wanted to read at a fucking movie, I'd go with Marlee Matlin.

Speaking of Marlee Matlin, I want to see a movie or TV show where she doesn't play a deaf chick. That would be some goddamn acting. Of course, I'd also like to see a movie where Orlando Bloom doesn't play the prettiest girl on screen and Hilary Swank doesn't play a horse-faced lesbian. And, yes, she's a lesbian in The Next Karate Kid.

I think I've made my argument and supported it sufficiently. So, now it's time, as I learned in school, to write my concluding paragraph.

In conclusion, I think I have proven fuck Mel Gibson in his stupid fucking face.

Interesting thought of the day:If you are offended by profanity, don't read the above post.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

Maybe it's crass, but since when has that stopped me, but I was just thinking about the fact that the President has to fit a good, solid dump into his schedule about once a day.

And, when you're the President and are expected at all sorts of different functions, if you go missing for more than a minute or so, everybody knows that you're pinching a Presidential loaf. Plus, there's supposed to always be a Secret Service guy at the President's side no matter what. That guy has heard the President shit hundreds of times.

He's probably heard this more than a few times:

"Hey, Billy. Billy. This is your Commander-in-chief here. Just to let you know, Air Force Two is leaving the tarmac. Hehehe. Get it, Billy? Air Force Two. Like going number two. Uh oh. We're being bombed, Billy. You hear that? Oh, man. And they smell, Billy. They stink. They're dropping stinkbombs on us. Aren't you supposed to take a bullet for me, Billy? How about taking one of these bullets."

"Mr. President, are you okay?"

"Yeah, Billy. I'm fine. I had to pardon a couple of colored felons from the inside of my colon. Just having a little fun with ya. I'm done now. Please come wipe me."

Ahh. An entry about the President taking a shit. This is probably a new high for me.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Well, I’m writing this from the Court House today because I am lucky enough to have been asked by the United States Government to perform a civil service and wake up at 6:15 in the morning.

I was going to write a sentence explaining the hilariously racist shirt that I’m wearing, but, I know that I’m going to have people looking over my shoulder because I have one of these fancy “porto-computers.”

So, now I’m stuck trying to write this as politically correct as I possibly can.

The goddamn guy just said that they need about 400 jurors or something for some long-ass trials. Granted, I don’t do shit during the day, but there’s no way I want to wake up this early every day so I can come out here and make $15 a day. I make more than that playing poker online and I can do that with a rock hard erection and nobody will look at me weird. But, right now as I'm typing this with my penis, everybody's looking at me weird. Don't judge me!

The chances of being let go today are slim, the Jury Manager, Manuel Gonzalez, says. It’s going to be my last day of jury service if I am not chosen. But I’m so goddamn all-American looking that there’s no way I’m not going to get picked. I may as well be wrapped in a fucking American flag, playing some baseball, eating an apple pie, and be 60 pounds overweight. Speaking of that, I’m going to type this fast, but there’s a huge chick sitting next to me. She has to have some Wooly Mammoth genes in her. Her face is really fucking hairy. We're sitting right next to a window, so the light shines across the side of her face and lights it up like a goddamn car lot. It's not peach fuzz, either, unless it was some big-ass peach.

The damn Jury Manger is doing stand-up. He just said, “Anybody here from Indiana?” Somebody shouted out, “Fort Wayne.” He replied, “I’m sorry?” The man repeated, “Fort Wayne.” He shot back, “Oh, I heard you. I’m just sorry.” Then, he pulled out the cap gun and scared off the hippopotamus that was blowing bubbles and wiggling its ears.

I’m just sitting here, hands poised over the keyboard, waiting for something to happen.

While I was waiting in line outside to go through the metal detector, of course, somebody started talking to me. Why does this happen to me all the time? If only people knew what a horrible, hideous human being I was on the inside. Having the physique of a decathlete can be such a hindrance.

Anyway, so the guy asks me if I’m from around here because he wants to know how hot it’s going to be today. So I tell him that it will probably be around 100 hoping that’s the end of that. But, no, he goes on to tell me why he’s at the Court House today. See, he was supposed to go to the Banning Program (I have no idea what that is, but I nodded my head as if I gave a fuck), which he did, but his paperwork was sent out saying that he didn’t. So, now he was at the Court House. I know, it’s not interesting, but if I had to listen to it, so do you. Then he went on to ask if I could break a $20. I could, so, again, I was hoping that was it. Nah. He explained to me how he needed to get change so he can pay for parking. I offered him a dollar so that he could go to his car and stop talking to me, but he declined. Then, finally, the glorious, post-conversation awkward silence began.

Video time! 15 minutes of glorious Jury Duty information. The video is explaining to me that sometimes things go wrong and we need to solve problems by having a jury. Thanks! “This is our democratic ideal,” says the voiceover lady. Right, because I want to have my fate decided by a bunch of people who would rather be doing anything than what they’re actually doing that day.

The way that it’s being narrated makes me feel like I’m in third grade. Except, in this case, I’m not going to be sent to the Nurse’s Office for pooping my pants again.

Now that I think about it, though I don’t want to serve, if I did get called into a court room and then wasn’t selected based on my responses, I’d feel rejected. “Why don’t you want to fuck me, Government? Am I not pretty enough for you?

The Judge is talking now, interrupting my damn video. Judge Bernie Schwartz. He’s giving us a history lesson about the Court House across the street now. He said that one of the first witches was burned at the stake there. And he said it really proud. Then he ripped open his gown and showed a pentagram made of blood on his chest and he screamed, “If any of you is a witch, feel the wrath of the great God Gorgomesh!”

The video is back on, baby! At least the judge in the video is wearing a kerchief. People don’t wear those enough. I mean, I’m wearing mine today, but you don’t really see a lot of people sporting one.

I think if I am chosen, I’m going to be the sarcastic juror. I’m probably going to be the reason that some innocent person is convicted.

“Oh yeah. I think he’s guilty.”

Hahaha. They just said on the video that serving on a Jury is nice because you make friends. “Many of the members of the jury keep in touch after the trial.” Wow, so I’m here to make friends. Thanks, America!

The music is so triumphant. It’s like the damn Olympics.

Now the credits are rolling. It’s sad to see the video end. And, you know that the Academy Award committee is going to snub it because it doesn’t star any big-name actors. That’s unfortunate, too, because the lady who played the Court Reporter gave a powerhouse performance. She made everybody in her scenes better just by being in them and fake typing her heart out.

Now everybody is just standing around waiting to hear that they get to go home. Fortunately for me, if I’m picked, I’m just going to stand up, scream, and wet my pants so I can’t stay. Incontinence is a sure sign of a bad juror.

Actually, there’s no way I could do that. I have trouble peeing at a urinal, there’s no way I’d be able to go in front of a few hundred people.

Motherfuck. I’m not going to get compensated for my first day here. They said that that doesn’t begin until the second day. California is cheap. Speaking of that, you’d think my goddamn tax dollars would help pay for some door stops for this place. Every time I had to wait in line somewhere, people would have to hold the door open.

They just rattled off a bunch of names for people that had been selected to go. So far, I’m in the clear. They started off with a last name that started with ‘e,’ so I should have known, but it took me until about ‘m’ to realize that it was in alphabetical order.

There’s some woman here who is grading papers, so most would assume that she is a teacher, but I like to pretend that she is a woman who was never able to earn her credential, so, instead, she kidnaps children and makes them do homework.

They just called some more names. Man, I’m glad my last name starts with a ‘D.’ If it started with a Z or some weird character, like @, I’d have to wait so long.They just yelled out somebody’s name, and it was “Constant Wisdom.” Jesus Christ. Fuck that person's parents.

Now I get to wait some more. This will probably be the longest thing I write. At least I’m hoping that that’s the case. It’s all stream-of-consciousness, too, so that ought to be a ball to read.

Some guy in business-y attire just got a phone call. He has one of those self-important headsets where, if you see him walking down the street, you think he’s crazy—or awesome.

The woman calling the names is treating this thing like Def Comedy Jam. “For those of you that smoke, you can go outside. But only the legal stuff.” The place exploded. One guy asked another to punch him in the face to make him stop laughing because he couldn’t take laughing so hard.

They’re calling more names. Fuck, they just said 200 jurors are being called by one department.

They’re calling in chunks of 50 I think. I’ve missed the first 100 so far. But, I have a feeling that that’s not going to last.

Man, this place is thinning out and there are at least 100 more to call. If I don’t get called, I’d be the only damn person left in this room.

I knew I should have worn my “Rape is no laughing matter…Unless you’re raping a clown” shirt. Nowhere did I read anything that said wearing shirts about rape was inappropriate. And if I don’t read it, that means I shouldn’t let my own moral judgment get in the way.

If I do get picked, I’m not sure, but I’d assume that maybe you have to fill out a questionnaire. If it asks for job, I’m going to say that it’s running a White Power website dedicated to the ascent of the White Man (always capitalized) back to the top where he belongs.

I think people that may be watching me type may find it odd that I’m hitting enter over and over again to hide the shitty things I’m typing. And when I say "people that may be watching me," I'm talking about Sasquatch face next to me.

The thing that sucks is that the summons said there would be wireless internet access here, but, for some reason, the shit’s not working. That’s the whole reason I brought my laptop: so I could look at porn in the court. There would be some serious gavel banging going on if you know what I mean (I don’t!).

There’s a guy reading “The Da Vinci Code” here. He also just heard this new song from this great new band called “Hootie something.”

SHIT!

And that's the point where they called my name. I'm typing the rest of this from home, all retrospective and shit.

Obviously, I didn't end up on a jury, or else you'd be reading my obituary and this would never see the light of day.

They called 50 of us and we all had to pile on these elevators on the second floor and go to the fifth. I ended up with about 15 others in an elevator headed up. I was standing in the very front. Somebody made a comment about being packed in like sardines. I looked down at the buttons and noticed that the third floor was lit up, so I said, "Yeah. And somebody in the back probably has to get out on the third." Everybody laughed and my self-esteem went from terror alert mauve to sea-foam green. I'm so fucking clever.

We gathered around some door where the Court Reporter chick came out looking like a low-rent Price Is Right Barker's Beauty from the early 80s and called off 18 names. After those names were read, the rest of us still had to go in and sit in the pews, the audience, the stands. Whatever it's called.

They swore us all in so we wouldn't lie when we were asked questions, but I didn't say "I do" so, technically, I was able to say whatever the hell I wanted.

I think the judge's name was The Honorable Chuckles McGiggles because he loved to crack jokes. Everybody there did. Murder cases are hilarious! Well, the one I was there for wasn't a murder case, but, instead, a stupid case about this guy who admitted to selling cocaine, and, the only reason he was on trial was because they were trying to prove that it was for the benefit of a gang. Lame.

Anyway, I learned the best way to get off of a jury if you're on one. Just say the following somewhere in the questioning: "I'm a follower of Jesus Christ." That guy was the first one to get the boot (or sandal).

I love the questions that the people on the jury are asked, though. They all had to say whether they had been convicted of a crime before and, if so, what it was. There were like 3 DUIs. Fucking drunk driving idiots. I'd sure want the people who make the fucking wise choice to get behind the wheel of a car drunk to decide my fate.

But, when it was all said and done, they mostly stuck with what was up there and I just sat there next to this girl who was kind of checking me out (probably because she smelled my awesome Nickelodeon: The Cologne). So it's at least a year until the government can waste a day of my time. In the meantime, though, I better find Jesus Christ (I heard he's with that chick in Aruba).

Interesting thought of the day:The Bald Eagle is the official bird of the United States. A lesser known fact is that George W. Bush eats one every Friday in a ritualistic ceremony because he "wants to be the most American."

Edit #2: Now that I think of it, I may have accidentally stolen this idea from a David Cross joke.

Monday, July 18, 2005

Everybody who has seen The Karate Kid (or had to clean a giant robot) knows that line.

"Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Lawrence?"

"No, Sensei."For the unitiated, a real-life Karate Kid event happened in a T-Ball game the other day. Except the Daniel Larusso in this case was a mentally handicapped boy.

That's right. The T-Ball coach paid a member of his team to hurt another member of their team with a baseball so he wouldn't have to put the retard in.

"STRIKE FIRST. STRIKE HARD. NO MERCY, SIR!"The Cobra Kai's method of thinking is all well and good when you're sporting feathered hair and a skeleton costume, but if you're an adult ordering an 8-year-old to hit a retarded boy in his retardo-cock with a baseball so you don't have to put him in the game, maybe it's time to do a little re-evaluating.

Luckily for the retarded boy, Pat Morita was on hand and, after he explained to Mr. Morita that he would never have balance if he didn't play--not with them, not with Ali (with an 'i'), not with himself or the chocolate monsters that come out of the back of his pants--Mr. Morita rubbed his hands together and placed them on the boy's ailing genitalia. The retarded boy was last seen running out of the locker room hitting himself in the crotch with a baseball glove screaming, "There's a ghost in my pants!"

"Daniel Larusso's going to fight? Daniel Larusso's going to fight!"

By the way, the man who delivered that line in the film as the ring announcer died recently from esophageal cancer. That's cancer of the homosexuals.

"Put him in a body bag! Yeah!"

Interesting thought of the day:Whenever I look at how dirty my keyboard is, I realize that I should probably never lick all of my fingers like I just ate a delicious bucket of chicken right after I type every entry here. But then I think, What's a little Hepatitis between friends?

Friday, July 15, 2005

That's right. "Harry Potter and the Pegasus-flavored Otter Pop," or, "Harry Potter and the Pillow Hump of Destiny," or "Harry Potter and the Strange Feelings Toward that Red-haired Boy," makes its debut tonight.

Some people, not realizing that it's a book and not the Childlike Empress from The Neverending Story, decided that it was important enough to send armed guards and GPS tracking with the books so that nothing can happen to them on the way to their destination. I think that the dead chick in Aruba's parents should learn a lesson from this: If you love your child enough, you will treat her like a book about wizards and first boners.

All the hoopla is hilarious to me, though. First, because it's called hoopla which, many people don't know, is a Scandanavian dish made from lamb and strawberry jelly. But, secondly, because it's a goddamn book filled with make-believe. I haven't seen anybody this excited for something that didn't actually exist since I took off the dress I was wearing for that guy I met at that club, "The Secret Handshake." It was his first time there.

Do you think that when the Bible came out, people were this excited? Or, was the Bible released in installments just like the Harry Potter books? If that's the case, I can see people getting all antsy for The Book of Job. Especially because, when they bought it at Best Buy, they got a free audio CD of Christopher Walken reading it.

"I can't wait to get "Luke." I hear that Lot's wife comes back and ruins everybody's soup by putting too much of herself in it!"

Interesting thought of the day:Putting temporary tattoos on your baby is funny. Even funnier? Putting permanent ones on somebody else's.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

I went to the gym for the first time in my entire life the other day. The stuff there is so heavy.

I am such a little girl that I'm so sore that I'm taking ibuprofen for the pain two days later. That's right. I worked out for probably 45 minutes and now it hurts when I breathe too deep.

As punishment for being such a pussy, I'm going to pee sitting down for the next month.

And I swear I'm not being sarcastic, but it actually hurts to type. Once I get the sand out of my vagina, at least I'll be able to sit more comfortably.

Anyway.

A woman got arrested for giving birth while she was drunk. Maybe she thought it would be best to bookend her conception and birth while she was in the same state. But, this time, she didn't have a blindfolded Swedish midget urinating in her mouth while she sung "It's Raining Men."

Interesting thought of the day:If I ever have a child, I'm going to make it wear a monocle and a top hat all of the time.

Friday, July 08, 2005

See, I fucking hate Al-Qaeda. Yeah. I'm going out on that limb. You may not want to come with me; the branch is pretty flimsy.

What I mean, though, is that, they're kind of saying that they're responsible for the bombings in England. Well, at least "The Secret Organization of Al-Qaeda" is taking credit for it.

First, if the name of your organization has the word "secret" in it, and then, after you commit a crime, you immediately claim responsiblity, Karl Rove must be your fucking publicist.

Second, Al-Qaeda calling itself secret is like Tom Cruise calling himself straight or sane or a good actor.

But, the reason I hate Al-Qaeda the most is because they kill 3000 Americans and, to show the British that they mean business, they kill 40 of them. 3000 Americans and 40 Brits. I know that their economy is a little stronger than ours right now, but god damn, that exchange rate is fucking harsh.

Don't get me wrong, 40 dead British people sucks, but, according to GWB, god watches over America and we got 3000 people killed. I hate to say it, because I'm such a staunch supporter of both religion and, especially, George W. Bush, but I think that god cares more about England than America. Maybe we should go to war with them now, too.

In all seriousness, I wish more British people would have gotten killed so I felt like Al-Qaeda hated them as much as they hate us. But, as it stands, I think this was a half-hearted attempt at best and was probably organized as a side project by some Al-Qaeda interns and all they're getting is some college credit and an extra 2 virgins in heaven.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

I went to Disneyland yesterday--you know, The Happiest Place on Earth. Well, while I was there, I was walking toward a bathroom and some old man handed me something. There's a weird response that humans have when somebody is handing them something: they take it.

Since I'm mostly human being (and part all-night sex robot), I, too, react this same way.

So I accept the flier that the old man is handing me. I'm not sure what the hell I thought it would be. I mean, it's not like he's advertising a rave at Rolling Hills Retirement Community. But, since it was already in my hand, I figured I'd look at it.I'm kind of an idiot, so I thought that, maybe, this wasn't a pamphlet about God, but, instead, maybe he was advertising a brothel or the mail-order child labor enslavement ring he disguises as a summer camp.

"Life begins at...The Battered Kitty! Come to Anaheim's only Gentleman's Club where it pays to both be a gentleman and bring a club because these ladies love physical abuse! One club to the cheekbone sends Mandi reeling with ecstacy! Watch as Sapphire bleeds from her eyes as only the ladies at The Shaved Kitty can! Wednesday nights don't miss our Vagina-stapling show. It sounds like exactly what it is--only hotter!"

Or

"Life begins at...Camp Sorethumbs! Hey, kids! Like soccer? Like sewing? How about combining two things that you like to do into one awesome new activity? I sure hope so, because that's all you'll be doing here! At Camp Sorethumbs, we sew soccerballs from the time the bugle wakes you up at 3:30 in the morning until it's "lights out" only a little over 23 and a half hours later at 2:45 AM. Non-stop sewing means non-stop fun!"

But, like I said, when I opened it up, I was sorely disappointed."When will you have an exciting, pleasant, satisfying life?"I like the part where it says, "ASK THE ELDERLY PERSON, and he will answer, "When...when..."

I think the reason I like it is because it's implying a few things:

Old people are mentally incompetent.

Old people have nothing to live for.

Old people will burn in hell if they don't find Jesus.

But, it took a turn for the worse when it got all Jesus-y. Don't get me wrong, it's still hilarious.

ASK THE CHRISTIAN, and he will answer, "For me to LIVE is Christ and to DIE is gain. My present is glorious because God is working through me. And my future is so certain that I can hardly wait!"

So, they're certain that there's a heaven and they really want to hurry up and get there? The Heaven's Gate people were certain that there was a flying saucer behind that comet and they did something about it. I'm not saying to kill yourselves, crazy-ass Christians, but, I am. Take some initiative, pussies!

On the next page it says, "LIFE BEGINS WHEN YOU CAN SAY:" and it lists a bunch of crazy Jesus-speak. Apparently, my life hasn't begun because there's no way I can say "...that whosoever believeth in him..." In fact, maybe people would have a lot easier time digesting this completely ridiculous nonsense if every verse wasn't written like a goddamn Harry Potter spell. I read one of the verses aloud and now one of my balls is haunted by Abraham Lincoln.

I don't care if you're religious, but, for the love of whatever completely imaginary entity you believe in, keep it out of the hallowed halls of Disneyland--especially when I'm trying to spit game at the 6-year-old holding her mommy's hand in line for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

Interesting thought of the day:Surprisingly, you can't get crabs from having sex with one. Even more surprising? You can get pregnant.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

The other day, because I'm unemployed and have every movie channel available, I watched the Major Motion Picture Wimbledon.

If it was up to me, I wouldn't have watched it, but my vagina had the remote.

Anyway, there were two things that struck me as so awesome, that I had to remark on them. The first is that, during the end credits, the first title card of any sort to come on the screen is a dedication to a guy who had obviously died. Now, if you were a member of the dead guy's family, would you be sort of pissed that such a shitty-ass movie was dedicated to him? Do you think it would be rude to ask them to not dedicate it to him? I know that if the last piece of work I ever did was on the movie Wimbledon, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, or Kate & Leopold, I would haunt the motherfuckers who dedicated that shit to me. In fact, as a hugely ironic twist, if I do happen to die (probably from fatal anal bleeding brought on by my penchant for doing naked jumping jacks over traffic cones on a Slip N Slide covered in vegetable oil), I would hope that somebody would try to dedicate the shittiest movie ever to me.

The thing that bothered me most, but also made me laugh out loud hysterically, was one of those goddamn stereotypical, cliche moments from romantic comedies. The man and the woman are arguing over something that, in the long run, doesn't really matter. It's easiest to demonstrate it with fake dialogue:

Woman: I can't believe you did that. Who on earth would do something like that?

Man: I would. That's who. It's not like you even...

Woman: Well, that's just great. Why would you do something like that?

Man: I don't know. Maybe it's because I love you or because I hate the way that Indian people smell.

Woman (caught offguard): What did you say?

Man: I said that I hate the way that Indian people smell.

Woman: No. Before that.

Man: I love you?

Woman: I love you, too.

They kiss and I ruin yet another TV by flipping it on its back and shitting on the screen.

If you're not somebody who finds this kind of thing absolutely hilarious, then you're probably the same somebody who bought Sweet Home Alabama the day it came out on DVD. If this is the case, then you're somebody who really needs to up your daily regimen of cyanide.

Interesting thought of the day:Every time a little girl is molested, Heaven gains a stripper.

I must have clicked to read the "Who Gives a Fuck?" section of the news on accident. I think he must believe his hat can cure AIDS in Africa because I used to think that that was the only thing he pretended to care about. But, take away his fucking hat and face the wrath of Bono. Fuck AIDS or poverty. When you mess with an Irishman's cowboy hat, you may as well be taking a dump in a pint of Guinness while sodomizing a leprechaun.

In other news, an old British lady just stabbed another woman in a Red Lobster for spilling wine all over her kimono. The victim, a South African woman, will have to buy a new pair of wooden clogs because they were destroyed in the scuffle.

Interesting thought of the day:Carpe Diem is Latin for "Overused Latin Expression."

Monday, July 04, 2005

While the 4th of July is actually an American holiday, every country on the planet celebrates it out of love for the United States. Since we're like everybody's best friend, they are just as happy for us as we are when our birthday comes around.

Also, since it's a well-known fact that God favors the United States in anything we do (GWB says so, so it has to be true--he's a modern day Neopolitan, Napoleon, Nostradamus, whatever), we have Jesus and Angels on our side as well. That means that somewhere in Heaven, Jesus has on an American flag bandana and is dressed up exactly like Bruce Springsteen in that video where he gets a handjob from Courtney Cox on stage. To pay homage to both the United States and the Boss, Jesus is getting a handjob from Courtney Cox's dead grandmother.

We have received a few gifts from other countries already, but most are going to be handed out at the big party tonight. America rented out the back room of a Chili's for the bash!

France gave us a bottle of wine and an Earth, Wind & Fire Greatest Hits CD. I didn't want to say anything, but, I mean, they gave us the Statue of Liberty once; whatever happened to putting that kind of thought into a gift? Sure, we'll drink the wine and probably listen to the CD, but another giant statue would have been nice. You can never have too many.

Canada gave us a gift certificate for a day spa. Yeah, it's nice, but it's only for $50 dollars. That's not exactly going to get everybody in America a full-release massage. Also, when they gave it to us, they said that, since their dollar is weaker than ours, that the gift certificate is both a birthday and Christmas gift. Cheap-ass Canadians.

Singapore sent us a card that they Photoshopped of Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden sixty-nining. It's funny, I guess, but they didn't even put any cash or anything inside. I understand, though, we've never been that good of friends. For their last birthday, we did send them a thousand children that they force into slave labor. So it just hurts a little, that's all.

California, Washington, Oregon, Hawaii, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinios, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Vermont, New York, Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, and Washington D.C. sent a funny card saying something about seceding from the Union. It was hilarious. They even got all of the political figures and a majority of the citizens to sign it. They really got everybody involved in that practical joke--even Hawaii who isn't even a real state anyway.

As a majority of American's gifts to themselves, they're going to get really drunk and play with things that explode. And, as their gift to me, I'll get to see video of it on the internet. God bless America!

Interesting thought of the day:I have a pocket full of wishes and a wallet full of dreams that I'm hoping to trade for the opportunity to poop on a prostitute's chest.

Sunday, July 03, 2005

Over the weekend, I saw the blockbustravaganza known as War of the Worlds. The movie was okay in that way that it's always okay to see a whole bunch of computer-generated shit blow up; that's always good. If you told me that my puppy had to be put down and I had finally contracted AIDS from the years of unprotected sex with New York City toilet seats, but you accompanied it with lots of explosions and people getting cut in half by laser beams, I'd probably be a little bummed, but, at the same time, totally stoked because some awesome shit was going down on screen.

So, in that way, the movie was entertaining--especially the first half. But, every time Tom Cruise came on screen, I couldn't help but think of how goddamn crazy he is now, Matt. And I know something about crazy. I've studied it, Matt. Matt, you're just being glib, but I know what I'm talking about, Matt. Matt.

Honestly, though, enough of this kidding nonsense; it hasn't worked for me for three years anyway. Even at the most sentimental moments when he and creepy adult-child Dakota Fanning were having emotional, touching moments, I couldn't help but think what was said moments before "Action!"

"Hey, Dakota. I know you're only ten, but, have you ever thought about the fact that every person on this planet actually contains the souls of a portion of the billions of people that were brought to this planet by the galactic ruler, Xenu, who strapped them to volcanoes and blew the fuck out of them with hydrogen bombs 75 million years ago? Dakota. That's why people get sick, Dakota. Because they have 75 million year old souls stuck to them. And, with my help, we can free those souls from inside of you. If you don't get it done, Dakota, you'll die."

"But, Mr. Cruise, didn't some guy just make all that stuff up?"

"Yes and no, Dakota. See, he made it all up, but it just turns out that everything he made up was absolutely true."

"Oh. I know I'm only ten, like you said, so I may not know any better, but that sure sounds like a huge load of fucking bullshit. I mean, when I was younger I believed that a fat man could fly around the world and deliver presents to everybody in one night, but goddamn, I think even if I was born mentally retarded and would only, in my lifetime, reach a cognitive capacity of a 4-year-old, I would still call bullshit on that story."

Then, since he's one of only a handful of level 6 Thetans on this planet (thus, capable of doing what needed to be done), Tom Cruise eats Dakota Fanning whole because it's the only way to save her and free all of the souls trapped inside of her. Then, with the fresh blood of a saved child on his lips, he kisses the Lizard Princess (who can only be revealed by looking through magic glasses a la They Live), Katie Holmes, and rapes Oprah.

Interesting thought of the day:I can never sneak anywhere because, when I tiptoe, I can't help but hum the cartoon tiptoe music. I also have the same problem with accompanying myself musically while chasing ghosts through hallways with lots of doors and having tons of dirty sex with the pizza man.

Saturday, July 02, 2005

A lot of people like to have friends. Me, though, I like to have BEST friends. Because who else is going to braid my hair and let me borrow tampons (Grandma)?

Since, at the moment, I have well over 1,500 friends (1 of which is actually a living, breathing entity and not, instead, a tiny faux-person I made out of an old pringles can, some construction paper, and a giant void in my life), I figured that it's only fair that I share some ways that can help you turn somebody into a friend for life!

I'm going to try to make these applicable to both sexes since I know I have a very strong contingent of ladies that read my work (or, as I like to call it, my "Literary Orgasms").

Upon meeting a new person that you know would work well as your best friend, immediately grab their vagina or balls and poke or tug ferociously while saying, "Who am I? Who am I? What does this button/lever do? KABOOM!" Then, while they're crying (not because of pain, but because they're laughing so hard in anticipation of what could possibly get even funnier than the setup), tell them this: "One of the guys from the Challenger!" This was how I made my first friend, way back in 1986, but, surprisingly, though a dated reference and joke, it still works wonders today.

Repeatedly tell this new person everything that you find wrong with them ("You know that your eyeballs are really crooked? Seriously, like Sloth from Goonies or Shannon Doherty.", "I'm sure people have told you before, but nothing you say is interesting. Ever. You talk and I just start thinking about anything else going on in my life because, if I don't, I'll probably start gnawing my own arm off like a coyote or that guy who went hiking and sawed his own arm off with a credit card to get out from underneath that rock.", or "You should probably look into having somebody take a huge shit on you before you leave the house because anything would be an improvement on the way that you smell naturally.") Then, after you tell them these things, always make sure you say, "But I'm still hanging out with you anyways because we're best friends."

Steal your new acquaintance's wallet/purse. If you can, get access to their bank accounts as well and sell as much of their stuff on ebay as you possibly can. Then, tell them that you donated all their money to charity, like kids with flies on their face, and how good they should feel about it. It doesn't matter if you actually give this money to charity or not--you can keep it--but just letting the person think that their money is going to good use is the gift of a lifetime and you'll be rewarded with everlasting FRIENDSHIP!

Two words: Naked hug.

Call your new friend any time, especially in the middle of the night. Make sure that they're asleep. When they answer the phone and ask what's the matter, just tell them that you can't believe that you're best friends with somebody so awesome. This works even better if you show up to their house in the middle of the night and do this in person.

Sign your friend up for as many junk mailing lists as you possibly can. Then, when they complain about how much mail they're getting, tell them that everybody is trying to be their new best friend, but there can be only one. Then, take out your sword (which you should always carry with you) and cut off the head of an innocent person standing nearby. Your new best friend loves Highlander references.

This one probably only works for guys: Rape your new friend's significant other. This may sound harsh, but you'll see where I'm going. When your best friend's girlfriend "whines" about getting raped, you tell your friend that you were just making sure his girlfriend was the one and that it must be true love because she really put up a fight.

Plant incriminating evidence (heroine, child porn, body parts) at your future friend's house. Then, call in an anonymous tip to the police. When this person is convicted and sent to prison, tell them that, even though you didn't know them that well, you don't think that they'd be capable of what they're there for. This will light a fire in this person's heart for you and you're on your way to having a new best friend in only 15 years to life.

Interesting thought of the day:If you have children that are going through puberty, just tell them that "puberty is magic" and when they're done with it, they'll become the most powerful wizard in the land. That will get them ready for adulthood.

Friday, July 01, 2005

So, I knowingly write something that isn't funny and, instead of deleting it as I normally do (you don't want to know the stuff that I've thrown out--100 times worse than that last entry; one was 10,000 words, written in Aramaic, about how hilarious it is that you get a tiny bag of peanuts on airline flights), acknowledge it as punishment because you bastards haven't been commenting, and I get 3 comments?

Looks like the only way to get you fuckers to talk is to be horrible. Let this be a lesson to all of you "lurkers." I don't need you commenting on every entry, but, feel free to, occasionally, add a little something (even if it's a poorly disguised attempt at not getting me to write something awful again). I will not hesitate to do this again. Trust me. This last one was just a warning shot. I've got a novella in me about how weird vaginas look.

As if it wasn't already "way homo" the way that they pronounce their S's, now they're letting gay Spanish people get married (to other Gay Spaniards--lucky you, Antonio Banderas!). Some people see this as a step forward but, really, Spain was voted gayest country in the world 15 years running by its peers. Though, for the past 15 years, the United States has voted for Canada, its vote has paled in comparison to those for Spain. Even France voted for Spain. That's like Richard Simmons calling Elton John a "fag" while he's blowing some dude and jerking off two others (his own "Deal-a-meal" as he calls it).